


Soft Refuge From The Storm

by nothing_rhymes_with_ianto



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, M/M, Pillow & Blanket Forts, thunderstorm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-06
Updated: 2014-02-06
Packaged: 2018-01-11 09:26:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1171426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothing_rhymes_with_ianto/pseuds/nothing_rhymes_with_ianto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bahorel and Grantaire build a blanket fort in the face of a thunderstorm and power outage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soft Refuge From The Storm

**Author's Note:**

> For Sydney [victorhugodammit](http://victorhugodammit.tumblr.com/), who had a really awful day today and needs some cheering up. I apologize for the probably not-great quality of this work, it’s been about 3 and a half months since I’ve written anything at all.

Contrary to most people’s ideas about him, Bahorel is reading. Okay, so he’s reading comic books, but the power has been out for about an hour and a half and he’s sure as hell not going to try reading the tiny-ass print of his law books by candle light.

The storm outside rattles the windows and lightning crashes against the dark sky but Bahorel kind of likes it. Storms are like a light show, or a battle between earth and heavens, or an insane rave with lots of drums. Whatever storms are like, he certainly doesn’t mind them.

He doesn’t hear the knock at first; it comes simultaneously to an incredibly loud clap of lightning that lights his living room up like daytime. But it comes again, and he heaves himself out of his chair with an animalistic grunt, opening the door slowly so the wind doesn’t bash it against the wall.

"Let me in, I’m freezing." Grantaire grumbles, and Bahorel steps aside to let him in. The man is soaked to the bone, wet hair plastered to his head, jeans sloshing as he steps onto the tiled floor of the kitchen. The power comes back on with a flicker of lights, the hum of the refrigerator starting up again making Grantaire jump. He’s shivering violently, and Bahorel clamps one hand on Grantaire’s shoulder.

"Get in the shower, dumbass, you need to warm up. I’ll get you clothes and shit."

Bahorel expects some sort of come-on retort, but the artist must really be freezing because he only looks up through his dripping hair and parts his chattering teeth long enough to respond “‘Kay,” before shuffling towards the bathroom. Bahorel listens to the water turn on as he heads into the bedroom for a pair of Grantaire’s sweatpants and one of his own baggy black sweaters. He snags a bunch of blankets out of the closet and shoves them all in the dryer, turning it on before returning to the bathroom.

Stepping inside, he puts the clothes on the counter. “I’ve got stuff for you here.”

"Thanks. Are you coming in? I’m still freezing."

"If you want me to."

"What the hell do _you_ think?”

Bahorel grins and sheds his clothes, pulling back the shower curtain to step under the near-boiling spray that Grantaire stands under. He wraps his arms around the smaller man, and Grantaire kissing his collarbone before laying his head on his chest.

"Why did you walk home in this insane weather? Why didn’t you get a cab?"

"Didn’t have enough money in my wallet." Grantaire mumbles, the sound muffled against Bahorel’s dark skin. "Cell phone is dead so I couldn’t call you, either, before you ask."

"Little shit," Bahorel tells him fondly, reaching over his shoulder to grab the shampoo, pouring it out onto his palm and working it into Grantaire’s hair, snickering as Grantaire hums with satisfaction. Soon enough, the dryer buzzes the end of it’s cycle and Bahorel prods his lover out of the shower.

"Clothes. Then blankets. Then—" The lights cut out again. "Shit. Put your clothes on, I’ll go get a flashlight."

Grantaire begins to do as he’s told, somehow placing a well-aimed smack on Bahorel’s ass as he passes to collect the blankets from the dryer. When he returns, Grantaire has lit candles about the living room and is stretched out on the sofa, eyes closed. Bahorel dumps all the blankets on his face.

"Hey! Oh, these are warm." Grantaire burrows under the blankets, but not before catching Bahorel by the wrist and yanking him down onto the couch to join him. "C’mere, asshole. Sit with me."

Bahorel does, and Grantaire squirms down until his head is in Bahorels lap and he’s curled on his side, his legs taking up the rest of the couch. Bahorel runs his fingers through damp hair and picks up his comic book, reading quietly while Grantaire drifts off to sleep.

An hour later and the storm still hasn’t let up, and the power is still out, and Bahorel has finished his comic book. He prods Grantaire, who grunts sleepily. He pushes Grantaire off the couch.

"What the _fuck_?”

"I’m bored. There’s nothing to do."

"Homework?"

"Fuck that shit."

Grantaire attempts to disentangle himself from the nest of blankets that have followed him off the couch. He gets free of a few before stopping and looking up at his hulking lover. “We could make a blanket fort. All you need is furniture and tape and a few heavy books.”

"I’m not seven. Blanket forts are stupid."

"You’re also sure as hell not twenty-five, and they’re really not. Let’s make a blanket fort. You’re bored, I like blankets. Come on."

They drag chairs and books and a couple of Bahorel’s hand weights over to the couch, where Grantaire tosses a few more sheets and blankets from the bedroom and Bahorel flings a roll of duct tape that bounces up and nails Grantaire in the chest. Soon they’re crawling around on the floor like children, debating the architecture of their little fort while candles flicker around them and a couple camping lanterns dug out of the closet light the room from their place on the floor.

"No, this sheet should go on top because it’s thinner so it won’t sag."

"But this blanket is a lighter colour, so we can actually see."

"That’s what the lanterns are for, dumbass. Just put the purple sheet on top."

"Fine, asshole." But Bahorel bumps his head against Grantaire’s shoulder like a giant housecat, and Grantaire can’t help but grin and curl his fingers through the short hairs at the back of Bahorel’s neck.

They hang blankets up across chairs and the back of the couch, then shove the duvet and all the pillows they can find inside, dragging the lanterns in with them.

"We could have sex in here."

"I am way too tired for that. I walked here and it was fucking freezing!"

"Yeah, alright." Bahorel scoots down, getting himself comfortable and looking around at what they’ve built.

The purple sheet-ceiling sags a bit in the middle, turning their little fort into a reverse bubble with flickering flame-lights visible just outside. Bahorel holds out an arm, and Grantaire snuggles into his side with a sigh, eyes falling shut as Bahorel drops a kiss on his hair. They lie there, warm and breathing, listening to the storm outside rage and rumble.

"This is nice." Bahorel admits roughly.

Grantaire smirks and pokes him in the ribs. “Told you so.”

"There’s only one problem," Bahorel pokes him back, then winds his arms around Grantaire’s body in order to distract him with kisses dropped on his neck.

"What?"

A wide grin, and teeth nip at his jaw. “Now that you’ve made me do this, it’s gonna have to happen every weekend. Or possibly every day. Blanket forts are the shit.”


End file.
